The Wicked

by Douglas Nicholas

  The shutters were all open. The sun was near the horizon, and the honey light, pouring low across the fields outside, striking in through the two windows in the western wall, gilded the battered tables and benches. The shadows along the walls and in the corners were the deeper by contrast. The music, the light, combined in some way, and the shabby room put beauty on like a garment; the farmers had grown solemn, and gazed on Molly and Nemain almost as though in prayer.

  Hawis came slowly and silently in from the kitchen, and at that point the two women began to sing, the words in Irish, the melody a twining of Molly’s deep womanly voice with Nemain’s high sweet girlish tones, chiming together, moving apart, so that Hob, who had heard it all before, yet breathed shallowly lest he miss the slightest note. He looked over. Hawis stood with her fist pressed to her mouth, and tears ran silently down her cheeks. After a moment she buried her face in her apron, and did not raise her head till the song was done; yet she did not move away either.

  At last the song ended, and the harps came down from the women’s shoulders, and still no one moved. After a short while the innkeeper came over to the table and placed a mug of beer before each woman, an action curiously like someone placing an offering at an altar.

  MOLLY AND NEMAIN put their harps aside. After a bit Hawis turned and went quietly back to the kitchen. The afternoon began to slide toward evening, and the two villagers left for their homes. With little to do, Molly’s small band sat around a table, down the room a little for privacy, and spoke very quietly, nursing mugs of barley beer.

  “Be said by me,” said Molly, “those two will be telling all they meet what they’ve heard this day, and it’s half the house will be full tomorrow, and no room at all the night after that. ’Tis a narrow path we’re on: we must be noticed enough by the folk hereabout, so that Sir Odinell can be inviting us to his castle without remark, and it seeming natural, what with our good repute here among these country folk and my—what is it I’m after telling this Adelard, my cousin’s godbrother?—my cousin’s godbrother up to the castle; and for this we must have folk to play to, and for that we need those two yellow-haired farmers to be talking to their kin and neighbors, and Adelard himself speaking of us as well.

  “But ’tis true that sheep draw wolves, and so these hard men from Sir Tarquin’s castle may be coming here as well, and we must be showing Adelard and the other folk that they are safe here with us, but not making Sir Tarquin suspicious of us. And that’s the narrow path we’re on, nor can we be veering too much to the one side nor the other.

  “If it should be that any of these spalpeens are coming in with an eye to mischief, ’tis in my mind to set Nemain on them first, and they being pulled to heel by a wee lass, ’twill be a lesson to them and another thing to make folk want to come see what’s toward at Adelard’s Inn.”

  Hob scowled; he drew breath to speak, to object, to volunteer: at any rate, something to remove his betrothed from danger. Just then Molly pointed a minatory finger directly at him: “And I’m not to be having a word from you, young man. ’Tis soon enough you’ll be having your chance to fight, and if ’tis a wife you wanted, and her to be a slight flower, and you to be protecting her at all times, ’tis that sweet helpless thing in yon kitchen you should have asked, and not a battle queen out of Erin, and her with her young hands dripping blood.”

  Hob closed his mouth—no one, least of all Hob, argued with Molly—and threw his hands in the air, a gesture of exasperated surrender. Nemain, who had indeed killed men, now extended her hands toward Hob, hanging limp from her wrists as if dripping blood. She shook them a little. From Jack’s broken throat there came the rhythmic wheezing that indicated laughter, and in a moment Hob grinned, and then began to laugh. Laughter became general, and Molly patted his arm. “It’s fine she’ll be, lad, and ourselves poised near, and myself to have my own dagger out the while.”

  Hob had seen Molly make a fifteen-yard cast into the dead center of a target while hardly seeming to look, and knew that she could stop anyone in a heartbeat with that thrown dagger. And to himself Hob had to admit that, despite his lessons from Sir Balthasar and his increasing size and his increasing strength and Molly’s second-sighted predictions of his future prowess as a great warrior in Ireland, at this moment Nemain was easily the more dangerous of the two of them.

  They had a light meal, waited on by Hawis, who gazed at Molly and Nemain as one who looks on beings from Heaven, and then repaired to the wagons, for it had been a long day, and in any event they must await the next day to see the yield of the nets Molly had cast into the waters.

  CHAPTER 9

  THE NEXT AFTERNOON AND EVENING the country folk drifted in, drank, ate, haggled with Adelard over payment in kind or with the occasional coin, and fell silent when Molly and Nemain played and sang. Later, with sufficient ale inside them, the villagers danced to the rhythm of Jack’s drum and the droning of Hob’s symphonia.

  Adelard’s custom increased by bounds; suddenly he had patrons as soon as the sun began to decline, and farmers left the fields. Folk arrived from the nearby hamlets, the men carrying pitch-smeared torches, which were doused and left by the door, to be rekindled for the dark journey home. All went well for two days; on the third day the wolves appeared, following the sheep.

  Molly sat at one side of the large table by the fire—the north side, by the door to the innyard, where the wagons stood against the protective wall. This side of the table had become the unofficial station for the musicians: they kept out of the patrons’ way; they had access to the instruments in the wagons; and Adelard still had room to seat others around the large table, so convenient to the kitchen.

  Toward evening on the third day, the inn was half-full with patrons, mostly drinking; Adelard was at the next table, brushing orts into a basket, when he looked down the room.

  “Oh Mary Mother,” he said in an undertone.

  He saw three men-at-arms, who seemed like men who had done some campaigning, although they looked past their first youth, beginning to decline physically as a result of constant dissipation, and in fact not sober this night. Hawis was placing jacks of ale in front of them.

  “Is it that they’re known to you, the ill-looking meirligh?” asked Molly.

  “Och aye, Mistress,” said Adelard. “Thae carls is troublin’ when sober an’ more when wet.”

  “Be at ease, friend Adelard,” said Molly. “We’ll be speaking to them if necessary.” She and Nemain went back to tuning their harps to each other, a task necessitated by each change in the weather, or the dampness, or proximity to the fireplace. Hob and Jack sat nearby; the symphonia and drum were propped by their feet. Soon the troupe, indeed the whole room, became aware of a growing disturbance.

  Hawis had been sent to require payment from the three men-at-arms. Loud drunken laughter came from two of the men; another was rapidly slipping into a rage, shouting at the young woman, who backed away, already in tears. Heads were turning; two of the village women slipped out the door, unwilling to be present for whatever was to ensue.

  “Away wi’ ye, ye fucking giglet. Be it that I tell ye tae trust me for payment, ye’ll trust me, or I’ll cut ee i’ t’ face, an’ ”—this delivered in a crazed bellow down the room, toward the front, where Adelard stood, frozen for the moment—“cut tha feyther’s throat in tha sight, aye, an’ tha fucking mither as well.”

  “Nemain,” said Molly, putting down her harp.

  Nemain, her ring-pommel dagger slung to her green leather zone, now quickly produced a second dagger, in a scabbard, from somewhere within her skirts, and slipped it into her zone where it cinched her gown at the small of her back. A moment later she was away and down the room. The angry brute was on his feet, and one of his comrades now rose to stand beside him, and the other to stand just behind these two. The bellowing soldier’s comrades had hard grins on their faces, as if anticipating a pleasant one-sided brawl with the landlord, or the farmers drinking at the inn. Nemain strode up and stood before the shou
ter.

  This fellow, pleased at such a vision of young beauty before him, with her pale skin and emerald eyes and flame hair, was still angry enough that he must insult her too.

  “What do ye want, coney?” he said. “If ye want some fucking gelt as weel”—here he patted himself—“Ah hae coin enow i’ ma braies fer ee.”

  Nemain said nothing, but her hand swept up and across her body, snatching the dagger from its sheath in a reverse grip, the pommel up by her thumb and the blade below her fist. She punched the pommel into his stomach, just below the ribs, something he would never have foreseen from this young, this very young, woman. In a reflex he bent, not double, but far enough over to allow Nemain, still with the dagger in a reverse grip, to slice his scalp backhand, three times in an eyeblink.

  A scalp wound is painful, and it bleeds profusely, out of all proportion to its negligible danger, and in a moment the bravo was blind with blood and convinced he was dying, and in that moment Nemain, with a small swift twirl, switched her hand to a forward grip on the hilt. Quick as a cat she had the point of her dagger at the throat of the second man, pricking him lightly just beneath the jaw where it runs into the neck, letting him know that she had but to push gently, easily, to wound him in a way that could not be remedied.

  So little time had elapsed that the third man, behind the other two, was just beginning to stir, reaching for his own dagger, when Nemain, her right hand still as a stone saint’s at the second bravo’s neck, reached behind her with her left hand, pulled the second dagger from its nest at her back, brought it around in front of her and tossed it straight up, head high, and caught it by the blade, and held it ready to throw at the third man. He ceased all motion, his eyes fixed on that small white hand, the dagger held high with naught but three feet of air between him and it, the other keeping his comrade from moving.

  “And it’s now that you’ll be taking your friend and washing him in the trough by the stables, and then away on, or myself will be killing the three of you, right here before everyone, it’s not that I’m caring who sees, and then won’t the inn be cutting you in small pieces, back there in the kitchen, on the stone table, the bones to the dogs, and our Hawis serving your lungs and livers in a pie tomorrow night, and you never seen above the ground again, nor your comrades hearing word of you under the sun.”

  The three were old soldiers, and might have delayed, and moved apart, and reattacked, were they faced with a man, but this small beauty, who seemed to have sprung from the floorboards and rendered them all helpless in two or three heartbeats, speaking calmly but earnestly of eating human flesh as though she meant it literally, filled them with superstitious dread, and what with the blood and pain of their comrade, a sort of collapse set in, and they wished only to retreat, and to make sense of what had just occurred, in a place of safety.

  The first man was sitting, head in hands, moaning. The man in back held up both palms, bent and seized his comrade’s arm, hauled him to his feet. The second bravo took a cautious step back from the knife, but Nemain suddenly stabbed at his midsection, and he gave a sharp cry of alarm and a convulsive backward movement, and then the coin-laden pouch that Nemain had just cut free of his belt hit the floor with a clinking thud.

  “And it’s now you’ve paid your score as well,” she said.

  He gave one glance at the pouch, which contained far more than adequate payment for the ale. He drew breath as though to speak; he looked at Nemain; he closed his mouth. He began to help the other two, and so they all shuffled backward, turned, and were out the door.

  Hob, looking on, tense, anxious, saw the steadiness of Nemain’s hands, and then she moved so he could see her face, the two red patches burning over her cheekbones, and the glitter of her green eyes, and he thought: She delights in this! And then he thought: My little demoness, my battle queen. He felt that he should be dismayed at his betrothed, her un-Christian savagery, but instead there was a sort of pride at this ferocious little person, and she sworn to be his bride, and no other’s.

  A DAY OR TWO WENT by, business prospered, the inn was full by the evening; the troupe played each night, sprightly or somberly. Folk also began to seek Molly’s advice on healing as they became aware of her skills, and before the sennight she had allotted as their time at the inn was up, she had folk coming to ask for aid with this or that bodily woe: she dispensed herb Robert for toothache and angelica for digestive troubles and her own mysterious remedies for the cramps that assail women, often laced with the uisce beatha. She expected that, any day now, the messenger would come from Chantemerle with Sir Odinell’s summons.

  Before that, though, there were the Scots.

  CHAPTER 10

  ON THE SIXTH DAY AFTER they arrived, the inn was deserted and the afternoon dimming to evening, when four men-at-arms slouched in and took a seat near where Molly and Nemain sat with Jack and Hob at their evening meal. By their accents, their size, their sandy hair and light eyes, they stood out as men from north of the Tweed. They looked at Molly’s group, but saw nothing to interest them. Hawis came out and went pale at the sight of them, a fact not unremarked at Molly’s table. They told her to bring ale, and she brought it swiftly and left as swiftly, nor did she ask for payment.

  Molly leaned over and spoke to Hob very low, sending him into the kitchen to ask about the quartet of roughnecks. Hob quietly got up and went in to find Hawis wringing her hands, and Joan stroking her hair, and Adelard looking troubled.

  “My mistress asks if there is anything amiss with those men out there,” said Hob.

  Adelard said, “Theer’s many a Scot being taken intae service by—” Here he would not say the name, but inclined his head in the general direction of the coast. “—and thae men are of them. They’m come in afore, and Ah’m feared ’tis ower t’ ruction t’ other night.”

  “For revenge? For what Nemain did to those three?” asked Hob.

  “Summat like,” said Adelard, his voice wavering a little. “Summat like.”

  “I’m sure you will be safe, with Mistress Molly here,” said Hob.

  “Thae be serious men,” said Adelard. “Men o’ their hands; serious men.”

  Hob went back as quietly as he had come, and reported to Molly. She nodded; she grew thoughtful, but said nothing. Hob pretended to resume eating, but he studied the men, drinking deeply from their mugs, refilling them from the beaker of ale Hawis had set in the center of the table. They were a different type from the three soldiers Nemain had faced down. These were hard men in excellent condition, malignant as the Northumbrian adders Hob had marked sunning themselves on logs and rocks along the trail.

  The Scots took to muttering together in their own language, the Scottish Gaelic that was so close to Molly’s Irish. They looked over at Molly’s table, but plainly did not realize that they were understood.

  After a bit, Molly and Nemain became very still, looking at each other, listening without seeming to listen.

  Hob leaned close to Nemain. “What is amiss?” he said.

  “They are just after making their plans to have their way with yon lassie when she next goes outside, in the dark, to the well—’tis behind the stable, and out of sight, that well—and then to throw her body down the throat of it, and that to be a lesson to the folk hereabout.”

  Molly put her hand flat to the plank table, dark with the oils and liquids of countless bygone spills. There was a dreadful finality about the gesture. “Jack,” she said in low tones, “would you ever stretch us the length of these bithiúnaigh on the floor? And nor are they to arise again.”

  Jack, as unruffled as though she had asked him to fetch a spoon from the kitchen, stood quietly and walked to the fireplace. From the bin beside it he selected a piece of wood the length of his arm, and walked unhurriedly back toward their table. His manner was so matter-of-fact that everyone ignored him. As he passed the Scots’ table he pivoted and swung the wood at the Scottish leader, catching him in the back of the neck. The Scot went down like a poleaxed steer, a
nd Jack swung backhanded at the man beside him. The blow took the mercenary in the temple and swept him sideways, bench and man crashing over together on their sides.

  The two Scots on the other side of the table leaped to their feet, one drawing a heavy double-edged dagger, but by then Jack was round the table and he thrust his impromptu bludgeon into the Scot’s middle, folding him over, destroying his breath. With the impersonal ruthlessness of the professional soldier, Jack stepped back for a better swing and clubbed down viciously on the third man’s head, producing a singularly unpleasant hollow thump, and the wretch went down at his feet.

  The last mercenary snatched up a small bench and held it by a leg, using it as a shield; in his right hand was a dirk. He sprang over his fallen comrade and paced toward Jack, the point of the dirk weaving like the head of a snake, seeking a way past the bar of wood, which Jack now held two-handed as a horizontal shield, moving it to block the questing blade. Suddenly Jack stepped back two paces, raised the wood one-handed, and with all the strength of his right arm hurled it, spinning, at the Scot’s face.

  The Scot adroitly blocked the cast with his improvised shield, but he was distracted for an eyeblink, and quick as a snapping dog Jack’s big hand closed on his knife wrist. Jack pulled the soldier past him and kicked the hinge of his knee, which buckled the Scot to a kneeling position. In the process Jack let go his wrist, letting him retain the knife, but to no avail: in a moment, Jack had seized his head, pulled under his jaw to bring his head back, and whipped it round to the right. There was a muffled crack as the neck snapped, and the soldier was dead on his knees, and the knife clattered to the bare wood floor.

  The suddenness of the attack, Jack’s skill, and especially his extraordinary strength, had produced four dead in eight breaths. Molly sat unmoving, completely at rest, a queen at the execution she had ordered.